Chapter 2 - The Small Discovery
Upstairs, the house slept on. The grandfather clock in the second-floor hallway chimed three times, its deep, resonant notes vibrating through the floorboards.
In her small room down the corridor from the main nursery, Lina woke up.
She didn't cry. She rarely cried at night. Instead, she rolled over, blinking her large brown eyes against the moonlight pouring through the window. Her pink hair clip had fallen off hours ago, and her curls framed her face in a wild halo. She threw off the heavy quilt her mother had sewn from patch scraps and sat up.
Thirst. That was the enemy.
Lina swung her bare legs over the edge of the mattress. Her small toes curled against the cold hardwood floor. She wore her favorite pajamas—yellow cotton with small white ducks waddling across the fabric. She padded out into the hallway, her footsteps completely silent.
She wanted water. But more than that, she wanted to see Signor Damiano.
She knew he always came home late on nights when the wind blew hard off the sound. She had listened from her bed earlier, hearing the heavy front door click shut, followed by the muffled thud of footsteps. She had waited for him to walk past her door, but he never did.
Maybe he went down to see Biscotti, she thought.
Lina crept down the grand staircase, her small hand sliding along the polished mahogany banister. The house was enormous, a dark leviathan of shadows and looming furniture, but she wasn't afraid. Eldergate was her playground, and she knew every nook where the light didn't reach.
She bypassed the kitchen, knowing her mother would be asleep in the staff wing, and headed straight for the heavy service door near the pantry—the one that led down to the stone cellars.
The door was unlocked. Carlo's men had been in a hurry.
A crack of pale light spilled up from the stone steps below. Lina poked her head into the opening, sniffing the air like a curious kitten.
"Signor Damiano?" she called out, her voice small and sweet, echoing down the concrete stairwell.
There was no answer. Just the steady drip, drip of water.
Lina frowned, her little eyebrows knitting together in confusion. She began to descend, one cautious step at a time, her oversized duck pajamas dragging slightly on the rough stone.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, the yellow glow from the single overhead bulb hit her eyes. She rounded the corner past the wine racks and stopped dead in her tracks.
There he was.
Signor Damiano was tied to a big wooden chair. Thick wires wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. His head was bowed slightly, and a dark shadow of stubble marked his jaw.
Lina dropped to all fours, crawling out from the shadow of the shelves. She didn't understand the wires. She didn't understand the men who had come and gone. All she knew was that her tall, quiet friend—the man who let her wrap her arms around his knee—was trapped.
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"Signor Damiano?" she whispered, crawling right up to his boots.
Damiano’s head snapped up. His eyes, usually cold and impenetrable, widened in absolute horror as he saw the small figure standing before him in the middle of a trap meant for an executioner.
